


Courage

by Mallorn



Series: The effects of kallocain [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2020-01-06 09:28:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18385667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mallorn/pseuds/Mallorn
Summary: Ever since using Krennic as a test subject for the interrogation drug he invented, Tarkin has fought the desire to experience it, or rather Krennic’s attention, himself. The time for the ultimate test has come.





	1. Action

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second story in the series "The effects of Kallocain", and it will make more sense if you read "Curiosity" first (and even if you feel that one doesn't interest you, I'd recommend at least looking at the parts written from Tarkin's POV).
> 
> Very heartfelt thanks to Cassandra1 for excellent proofreading <3

 

The moment has come, Tarkin decides as he gazes at the yellowish liquid in the ampoule. It is the first time he does so; all day he has ignored the itch from his pocket and yet the idea of experiencing the drug himself has been on his mind ever since that fateful test, many weeks ago. What will it be like to be free of this pull? Will succumbing to temptation make him truly free again, or will freedom become another prison? Perchance this minuscule glass container in his control is the lesser evil. It is not so easy to control the ghost behind it, the man whom he ought never to have touched.

He shuts his eyes. White. That blasted colour is all he sees when he tries to rest. Enough of it! He will do it, he will take the drug, and it will be his triumph or his downfall. He is not afraid. The danger is one he knows well, the risk high but calculated. The prize is worth it. His life, his own life, reclaimed from the realm of foolish dreams and half-truths.

His palm smarts and, for a second, he fears he may have crushed the ampoule. Such glass is too brittle to do much harm, but it remains whole this time as well. The marks from his nails will fade. As always.

This is not the time to tarry. It is night already, and he needs Krennic in control of his senses. Heaven forbid the man is already drunk, or worse!

He shrugs off his tunic and hangs it over the spine of a chair, then proceeds to roll up his left sleeve. The pale blue lines are clearly visible against his pallid skin. He has always had good veins.

He has considered fitting the laboratory with a couch, or a narrow berth, but discarded it as ridiculous. Krennic is not a fool, he might suspect _preparations_. He must not. The floor will have to do. Or the chair, window-sill, anything but the worktables. Those are not for _dalliances_.

He opens a drawer in the steel cupboard that covers the entire far wall. This is the same syringe he used back then – it is strange how a couple of months can feel like years – but the needle is of course new. There are limits to nostalgia.

With a resolute snap of his thumb and forefinger, the neck of the ampoule breaks. It is a clean cut; no minuscule shards cloud the liquid. The needle drinks it greedily, until every single drop is drained. He squeezes gently and a bead forms at the tip. A final glance around the room – yes, this is how he wants to be found. Everything is ready.

He moves the chair a little closer to the comm device. His left arm rests on the table. It is unmistakably his, yet feels alien, detached somehow.

Injecting the liquid is a matter of seconds.

There! The syringe clatters to the table, and he picks it up with haste, positioning it at an angle perpendicular to the edge, but not too close to the broken ampoule. The shards annoy him, but he leaves them for now. He cannot allow the appearance of planning. A hasty mistake is all it is.

For now, he feels no different. It takes a time for the substance to register. This he knows, and yet the waiting grates on him. What if he took too long deciding; it may not even be active any longer. Then he feels it, the initial punch his test subjects have mentioned. A sudden rush of cold, followed by heat spreading through his limbs. It is pleasant at first, a warmth that seems to embrace him, and then begins the stirring. His hand involuntarily flies to his crotch. He snatches it away, knowing any such exercises will be futile. Concentration, Wilhuff! Control.

He pushes the comm button.

“Grand Moff?” Krennic sounds agitated, and a little annoyed at being disturbed in whatever nefarious deeds he was into. Something involving saccharine, quite probably. Or alcohol, or both. A little exercise will do him good.

“Director,” Tarkin says, “I require your immediate assistance in the laboratory. There has been an accident.”

The slight hesitation before the last word annoys him. Conveying a sense of urgency is crucial and simulating a mishap is his chosen course of action.

“Coming.”

Tarkin lets out a breath. The second of waiting before the affirmative answer was already making him nauseous. Now all he needs to do is to brace himself for impact. He leans back into the chair.

* * *

 

He is not disappointed. Krennic bursting through the door, cape flying behind him, is a sight he never tires of. Overly dramatic as it is, it is also striking, and an excellent demonstration of the energy that seems to always surround the director. Out of control. Despicable. Formidable.

Krennic looks around with frantic haste, sniffs the air, then stares at Tarkin.

“What’s the matter? I see nothing here that burns, oozes poisonous smoke or threatens to melt through the floor.”

“I… made a mistake.” As painful as it is to admit, this is part of his script, the opening dialogue that will bare him to the tempest he has summoned. “I was going to administer a small dose of sweetblossom distillate, merely as a way to ease my rest this evening, but, alas, I picked the wrong ampoule.”

Krennic is right to look suspicious. Tarkin is not in the habit of taking recreational drugs, nor is he prone to mistakes.

“So, what did you take?”

Tarkin feels sweat break out in his forehead as he replies. “Kallocain. You know its effects.”

There is no doubt that Krennic, in fact, has this in very fresh memory, and not only catering to victims, but feeling those effects on himself. A sardonic smile creeps into his face. “I do.” The smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Those are cold, cruel.

Tarkin suppresses a shiver. Even when directed at him, the hint of cruelty brightens Krennic’s gaze, adding to the man’s already insane attractiveness. The stirring in Tarkin’s trousers is growing more insistent by the second. This is the natural working of the drug, of course, but nevertheless interesting to observe. He glances at the chrono and mentally registers the time. How peculiar. His response appears to be timed a bit earlier than in most test subjects. His thin frame cannot be the sole explanation for this, seeing how a similar anomaly was present on the occasion when the director was encouraged to volunteer. He is becoming quite ready. He glances at Krennic, meeting that gaze again.

“Ah, Wilhuff,” Krennic says, “how unfortunate that I am in no shape to perform presently.” He removes a glove and studies his nails in an elaborate, infuriating manner. “I’m afraid you will have to wait a little.” The melancholy in his eyes is accompanied by his signature pout. It looks much too authentic. “I assure you it is not harmful. You will not perish, it only feels like it.” This time his smile reaches his eyes and the effect is chilling.

“I never made you wait,” Tarkin snarls. “Do not dare to threaten me. I can still demote you, even have you thrown off this station. I know you wouldn’t dare take me on in honest combat.”

“Wilhuff,” Krennic says with pity in his voice, tilting his head. Pouting again. “Shall I find you another to help alleviate your condition? I do not doubt there are many who would love to, and even more who would love to hear every detail afterwards, the story of how the mighty Grand Moff Tarkin fell into his own trap.”

Krennic runs his bare hand along Tarkin’s exposed forearm, and he cannot hinder the shiver. It feels so good. He stares at the large hand, those strong, meaty fingers with their soft tips that stroke over his skin as lightly as a breeze in the lavender heaths of his home planet. Only the scent is missing.

Krennic’s cologne, while heady enough to cloud Tarkin’s senses, isn’t quite enough to overcome the clinical laboratory odours. Good.

“I could order you,” Tarkin retorts, dragging his eyes from the hand to the face of its owner and clenching his jaw. Pity instantly gives way to defiance. Krennic’s displays of emotion are as entertaining as ever. Tarkin lifts a finger, noting with satisfaction how the director instantly shuts his mouth. “I could order you,” he says again, stressing the auxiliary verb. This catches the director’s attention. “I am, however, asking for your assistance. As second-in-command, you are in a better position to assist me than anybody else.”

“You flatter me,” Krennic says, a hint of rose colouring his cheeks. “It really is a pity that I cannot be of assistance this instant.” He snatches his hand back and puts the glove back on.

Another surge of lust courses through Tarkin, a distinctively unpleasant one. It is urgent, unrestrained, chaotic. Rather than exciting him, it fills him with annoyance. He stands, meeting the director straight on. “I do not recall seeing such reluctance in you,” he says. “Get on with it.”

“I just might,” Krennic says, lifting his chin and flexing his fingers.

When the director puffs out his chest like that, it almost touches Tarkin’s own. He takes a step back, and then another one when Krennic follows, until he is backed up against the cupboards. He is beginning to feel a little dizzy. And cold, so cold. This is not what the others described; they were hot, burning up with need to be touched. Warmth is what he craves, the warmth of those too-large hands, wasted on one who does no manual labour. He stares at Krennic despite the difficulty in focusing. Eagerness has replaced the malice in the other’s gaze and he doesn’t mind that so much. The spark is still there, the restless energy and the quicksilver mind that has always been Krennic’s rescue. Tarkin’s eyes widen and then warmth engulfs him.

Krennic’s lips are the warmth he has craved and although the thought crosses his mind that such indulgent behaviour is not what he needs, he relaxes and responds in kind. This is the drug’s working. It is not he who parts his lips, not he who not only allows the questing tongue’s entrance but sucks the tip as if it were the last water-plant before the desert. Most decidedly, it is not his moan that breaks the silence.

“Very good, Wilhuff,” a voice says close to his ear. The breath is so hot, so good the whimper might just belong to him. “So responsive. Are you warming up a little now? Any discomfort presenting itself? How if I distance myself a bit?”

Fear strikes him at the loss of contact. His eyes burst open, alarmed.

“I know that terror,” Krennic says. “And now you do, too.”

Krennic steps back, the director’s large hands framing his waist before one goes up to cup his cheek. He turns into it, pushing into that life-saving warmth.

“You were always known for your ruthlessness, Wilhuff. I shouldn’t have been surprised. Myself, I am a much kinder man.”

Tarkin cannot stop the snort.

“What?” The director sounds wounded. “I could make you suffer, and I won’t. I might even save you some of the begging.” He hardens the grip around Tarkin’s face. “Say ‘please’.”

It is ridiculous. There is not a chance he would lower himself to such a degree. Krennic is here on his invitation, his orders.

“Service me,” he says. “You know how, you experienced the need yourself as you have already thrust in my face numerous times. My patience is wearing thin.”  

“How dare you,” Krennic hisses slowly. He presses himself harder against Tarkin, that wonderful body heat beginning to seep through his clothes in earnest.

“Just send for one of your death troopers if you can’t do it yourself. They are sworn to secrecy.”

“You will not tell me what to do.” Krennic pushes his pelvis forward

He is gloriously hard. Tarkin relishes the feeling of it against his own straining member.

“So, that is what it takes to make you shut up,” Krennic declares.

Tarkin couldn’t care less about his words. He relaxes his stance a fraction, which makes his length rub just a little against Krennic’s. The other man relaxes as well. He lets out a puff of air against Tarkin’s throat, lips just brushing over his skin. A caress – no, a taunt, the ghost of a kiss much too sweet to be sincere. It is followed by a thumb slowly dragging over his cheek. He leans his head back against the cold steel. His head swims. Fingers stroke over his cheekbone and the hollow beneath.

“Relax, Wilhuff.” The voice in his ear is so low it is barely a whisper. “Let me take care of you. I will make it so good. Just relax.”

Soft lips just beneath his ear. Something wet in its wake. Is it – he wouldn’t dare, would he? He tilts his head away, realizing too late that it bares his throat the more. That inquisitive tongue follows him, a relentless hunter growing more insistent by the second. He allows it, soon craves it.

“So good, isn’t it? You’ve chosen the right man, you’ll see.”

More sweet nothings in his ear, a gloved hand cradling – cradling! –  his neck, and the other glides over his front. Down to his trousers, to the bulge in them.

He clenches his jaw and clutches Krennic’s shoulders. Those hands, such clever ones, about to undo him even like this. He concentrates on his breathing. In. One. Out. One. In. Two. Out –

“Fuck!”

Krennic moans, a wanton, shameless sound. The man’s clever mouth shaped like an o, those eyes looking at him with lust now, almost like that time. They are less clouded now, less… feverish. Tarkin quenches an impulse to reach out and touch his cheek.

“Get on your knees.”

“That’s not how it works,” Krennic tuts. His face is rosy, with lust, or anger, or both.

Tarkin remembers all too well. That is the part that haunts him. For all it excites him to watch the director asserting his power over others, he craves to see the man as he was then, begging and trembling with need. He cannot see himself in that role, not even under the drug’s influence.

He flinches soundlessly as a bout of pain courses through him, leaving him weak with desire. He is warm now, finally, there’s a thirst that centres around his crotch and that craves to be quenched. The pain doesn’t frighten him; considering the circumstances it is, however, unnecessary to endure it. He rakes his hand down Krennic’s back and gropes his arse.

Krennic frantically unfastens his belt, rips open his tunic and shrugs it off together with the cape. It lands behind him in a flurry of white. Such mess in this perfectly orderly room.

While the other man yanks down his trousers in an extremely crude manner, Tarkin unfastens his own without any fuss. His hands are slightly shaking, he observes.

“Don’t even think about it,” he says as he sees the director’s hot glance fly towards the worktables. He regrets it momentarily, when another bout of desire courses through him, making him weak at the knees. He wouldn’t mind sitting, lying down, anything. But most of all he wants –

Yes. Krennic is clever, he has pushed him back up against the wall, harder now, enough to take some of his weight. His gloves are off, and his cock is bared, too, and his hand handles both their lengths expertly, trapped between their bodies. The other hand is pressed against the wall, just beside Tarkin’s head.

Tarkin sneaks his hands in under the other man’s shirt, holds on to his meaty back, then grabs his hips, his arse, pulls him closer and closer still. Sweat breaks out on his forehead and he is sweating profusely below as well, a result of the friction no doubt and he needs more of it, just a little more and he cannot get enough of the man who grinds against him, grunting hoarsely with every thrust.

Krennic’s face is near his own, staring.

He turns his head to the left, towards the wrist there and he tastes the skin, a little salty and deliciously warm and he presses his tongue against it again. Krennic moans and his hand corkscrews around his shaft towards the head and his hips begin to rut on their own accord and he should count his breaths again but he doesn’t want to and he can’t and the pressure is building up and he needs ah he needs more more more –

When he comes to and opens his eyes, Krennic is standing there, panting, with a grin on his face and his blue eyes glittering and it is a sight that comes near rivalling that of the sky over the plateau in spring.

“Your assistance was adequate,” Tarkin says and fastens his trousers.

“This was not an accident, Wilhuff. Deny it all you want, I know you did it on purpose.” Krennic puts on his tunic and cape first, as if he takes some obscene pleasure in keeping his now flaccid member on display.  “I have to admit it was brave of you to assume I’d come.”

“Unpredictable as you are at times, you have always been eager to indulge in animalistic urges.”

“If you’d just show me the respect I’m due, you wouldn’t need to go to such extremes to have my company.”

“It was an accident.”

Krennic looks around pointedly. “You know, there are also more inspiring environs for a date.” He winks.

Tarkin pinches the bridge of his nose. _Oh shut up, will you!_ “Do not test my patience,” he says, but struggles to add the usual edge of acidity.

“Whatever you say,” Krennic replies with a smirk, his eyes glittering in the most infuriating manner. He turns and leaves as he came, cape billowing dramatically behind him.

Tarkin turns his attention to the broken ampoule and the syringe beside it. There appears to be nothing left, yet there must be, just the microscopic amount needed to ascertain its potency. He must _know_.

 

 


	2. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tarkin discovers that dealing with the consequences of his plan may require another kind of courage.

Calling his encounter with Krennic a failure would be too harsh even for Tarkin. A disappointment, perhaps, an attempt to achieve something that didn’t quite succeed. There ought to have been more to it. Sweat. Passion. Pain. He expected it to be rougher, dirtier, further removed from his clean and controlled existence on the station. He needs to taste blood to know it’s real.

He curses his upbringing, or lack of it, and the military training that only ingrained those lessons further. The polished layer of civility in him is too thin to sustain him. Being a Tarkin is to conquer.

He winces at his own embarrassing inability to restrain himself and make it last. Even under the drug’s influence, he should have been able to exercise enough control not to spill like an overeager boy.

He sighs. That was it, there will not be another time. He cannot risk repeating the incident, and he refuses to take Krennic’s insinuations seriously. The man would never willingly share his bed. And yet, his excitement seemed real. A master manipulator he is, naturally, able to feign attraction whenever needed. Tarkin will keep him at arm’s length henceforth. Their tryst has done nothing whatsoever to free him from the director’s influence.

The laboratory, as always, offers a soothing reprieve from his troubles. He takes comfort in the precise measuring of ingredients and the accurate sense of timing needed to halt a reaction at the right moment. There is no room to let his attention wander. His mind is clear, his hands as sure as ever when he dips the tester into the broken ampoule. It has to be enough. He must know.

* * *

 

On the bridge, Krennic watches him with a sly, searching glance. He is intelligent enough not to advertise the mishap to others. Tarkin’s got to give him that much credit. It must be hard for a boastful creature like him, usually eager to take every opportunity to bask in his success, regardless of to whom the merit rightfully belongs. He’d better say something himself, before the impulse to gloat overcomes Krennic.

“Your discretion is much appreciated, Director.”

“Governor.” Krennic seems to pretend to study his nails at first, but once he lifts his gaze to Tarkin’s face he looks – expectant.

“I am grateful,” Tarkin continues. “For your assistance.”

“It wasn’t half bad, was it? Just tell me if you’d care for a repeat performance. There’s much more to my repertoire.” He straightens his shoulders, almost shaking them out like some kind of outrageous bird’s display.

“You have had a lot of practice.” Why does the thought of Krennic’s many partners annoy him so? It isn’t as if the personal lives of his colleagues concern him.

“Thanks to you, don’t forget that.” The needling is delivered swiftly, coldly.

“Hardly.” It takes more to upset him. “Your reputation preceded you already many years ago. Let us not forget that, Director.”

The look of petulant child suits Krennic and Tarkin feels an involuntary smile tug at the corners of his lips. The shadow lifts from the director’s face as quickly as it descended.

“Actually,” Krennic continues, energized,” if you’d find a way to remove the element that induces fear for one’s life, it’s not a bad aphrodisiac. I’d have been curious to try it, too.”

“A change such as the one you suggest would render the preparation useless for its purpose. My endeavours in this field serve the Empire.” How dare Krennic suggest that his meticulous research be used for frivolity? He fought hard for many years for his hobby to be accepted as useful for his profession. That is another thing he has the Emperor to thank for.

 “What about after the war then? You could make a fortune from it. I know just where –”

“I beg you, Director, spare me the details of your experiences with the unsavoury elements of society. Furthermore, I’d much prefer if you’d keep your meddling out of my domain. I’m going to the laboratory now and do not expect to be disturbed.”

He turns away swiftly, thankful for the tunic design concealing the drug’s residual effects.

“Just remember that the idea was mine,” Krennic shouts after him, his native dialect thick. “A fortune, I assure you!”

Tarkin wishes Krennic’s offer of further relations wasn’t quite so tempting. There shouldn’t be anything left of the substance in his blood, but he feels like remnants of the drug still course through him. There is no other explanation for his body’s reaction to the infuriating director.

His attempts to take care of himself are fruitless, just as predicted.

* * *

 

It takes three days to get the result. Three days of agonizing over his weakness and wearing the floor between the bridge and the laboratory as thin as his patience. The verdict crushes him. Rather than being in thrall to the drug, his own body and mind have been the origin of everything. The lust, the attraction, the shamelessly advertised need. The loss of control. All were of his volition, and it was so because of his own hesitation, his inability to act with the resolution required by the situation. He has nothing to blame for the drug’s inefficiency but his own pitiful cowardice.

He does not shout, nor does he curse. He remains seated until the red haze has passed from his mind. Then he puts on his gloves and very carefully places the remains of the ampoule on the floor. He lifts his foot and lowers it slowly, savouring every nuanced shriek of the splitting glass as he grinds it into dust under his heel.

The tester grins at him, blinds his eyes with its taunting violet glow. The drug was not completely inactive, but the tester should have been a soothing blue.

He burns it together with the glass dust. A small parcel cast into the incinerator. Nothing of consequence, however irregular for him to do this himself rather than entrust the task to a sanitizer droid.

Nothing remains to tell of his shame.

* * *

 

It’s been a long time since Tarkin experienced such an appetite for violence, such a hunger for passion, sweat, blood. He needs the cleansing only hard physical exercise can give. He should pick a fight – not with Krennic, but someone younger, fitter, who could put up some real resistance. Grappling with the director would be amusing, and the satisfaction of punching him quite sublime, but it is far too dangerous. He suspects such an encounter would quickly end up as something completely different.

Nevertheless, having a fist-fight with Krennic is a captivating thought and he goes through multiple scenarios in his head. They all have a major flaw. Regardless of how they start, the end is inevitable himself astride Krennic’s hips and two sets of noticeably bulging trousers. Sometimes there’s kissing involved as well, of the same heated, bite-like variety he’s already tasted.

He has difficulty sleeping and towards the morning his mind has created a scenario in which he himself is the conquered one, pinned under the director’s weight and helpless to resist his advances.

Krennic indeed was a fighter in his youth – he’s heard the rumours – and he can still imagine him throwing quite a punch with those sizeable hands. His reach isn’t striking, but he’s got some weight to put behind his blows, not that it makes much difference against the sluggishness of a comfortable life, the same fate that befalls most desk officers these days. He sneers. The idea of the director besting him is ridiculous.

He should just place a discreet order with medbay for what they feed the troopers and be done with it. It’s not as if he’s planning to procreate.

* * *

  
  
The director is a nuisance. Flashes of white are everywhere Tarkin looks. Not even in the seclusion of his laboratory is he allowed any reprieve. The many screens taunt him with their incessant reminders, yet turning them off would be contrary to his mission.

“Must you pose for every security camera on this station,” he snarls when he meets the culprit in person.

“I can hardly forget they’re there, can I? My knowledge of everything here is quite intimate.”

Feigned innocence and salacious remarks. Infuriating!

“How are you?” Krennic asks softly, his expression concerned.

What a preposterous thing to say. When did personal concerns become a part of their interactions? A less observant viewer might have been duped to think the director cares.

“I am fully recovered.”

“Good.” Krennic shrugs. “The experience is rather unnerving even when you expect it. Being doused with it unawares is not worth the thrill.”

“Your willingness to serve at my time of need has been noted previously. There is no need to dwell on the matter. It’s nothing that will give you a promotion.”

“You still seem… agitated.” The director looks genuinely worried.

Tarkin sighs. “If you must know, there’s a residual effect.” The lie flows effortlessly over his lips. “I am going to combat it.” He opens his fist, revealing the brightly orange pill he has procured. He still deserves to suffer for his mistake, but he has no right to let it affect his ability to command the station.

Krennic recoils at the sight of the pill.

“Don’t,” he says, holding out his hands as if to protect himself. “Believe me, it’ll dull your mind as much as it suppresses the urges. It’s not worth it.”

Tarkin is relieved to hear it, more than he’s willing to admit. He indeed prefers to remain intact.

“Thank you,” he says grudgingly.

“I’ve another vice for you if you care to relax.”

Tarkin feels Krennic’s knuckles stroke over his cheekbone. It is a tender gesture, one that reminds Tarkin of his own weakness.

“Get out,” he barks.

* * *

 

After that, Krennic doesn’t come to his office. All communication is limited to strictly professional matters. This shouldn’t be such a change to Tarkin; it’s not like they’ve ever been friends.

He goes about his duty as usual, his commands somewhat snappier, his jaws clenched a little harder. He stays up watching interrogations and they bring him no satisfaction. Neither do the ‘friends’ Ozzel procures for him. The death toll among the station’s captured rebel sympathisers peaks.

His dealings with the director continue to be disturbing even when cut to a minimum. Hearing the director laugh grates on him. Seeing him walking arm in arm with General Veers causes a red-hot flash of jealousy that has him return to his office on the instant, not bothering to hide his anger.

He returns to the officers’ mess later that night, a perfect image of control, only to encounter Krennic in a state unworthy of even the lowest servant of the Empire. The man is well and truly hammered.

“Governor,” he splutters, “maybe you don’t know, but I like you.” He is swaying considerably and finds his balance by pushing a finger into Tarkin’s chest. “But, if you’ve any hope of one day fucking me face first into a mattress, you’ll have to fess up and say so. I am an occupied man.”


	3. Naked in their various ways

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Together at last. It’s a disaster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This concludes the Kallocain series, but I doubt I'll be able to leave these two alone for good. This chapter has taken forever to finish and I've never edited something this much in my life! It's been diffcult and fun, and I hope you'll find the result entertaining.
> 
> Many thanks to Cassandra1 for expert proof-reading; if you spot a typo it's due to my inattentiveness, not hers :)
> 
> Also, I borrowed the chapter title from a line in an obscure Leonard Cohen song. Talented man with excellent bedroom voice!

For Tarkin, Krennic’s drunken ramblings are quite a mouthful to digest. The director apparently _likes_ him and _desires_ him enough to express it in the crudest wording. Over the following days, Tarkin turns the words over in his mind, assessing them while he watches Krennic from the safety of his lab. He can hardly work. Every little flicker of white attracts his attention to the screens and he just sits there, letting his mind swim in the possibilities, until it’s gone, and he must wait for its next appearance.

He wants it, that is undeniable. White material crushed in his fists, a meaty thigh rubbing against him, Krennic’s moans in his ears. So much heat, and he will have it again. It is a risk, but one he’s prepared to take. He has seldom backed down from a challenge. Neither has Krennic, it is said.

That night, Tarkin stalks the short distance to Krennic’s rooms as soon as the security system tells him the director is there, alone. Over the past weeks he has often wished their quarters were situated further apart – tonight it is a blessing. So little time now until he’ll finally have what he desires. He will invite Krennic to share a drink, they’ll have some intelligent conversation, and then _–_ _mouths bodies hands, clothing strewn across the floor –_ then they’ll fuck. Wildly at first, perhaps, then slower, until he has Krennic entirely under his control, begging for release…

“I want it,” he declares flatly as soon as the director’s suspicious visage appears in the doorway.

“How eloquently put,” Krennic responds. “Has all your elegant speech evaded you?” His lisp is prominent, endearing and annoying. “What do you want?”

“Precisely what I said. Provided your offer of carnal relations still stands, I’m prepared to take you up on it.” Whatever reaction he expected from Krennic, it’s not this stare.  “That is, unless you’ve retracted it.” He doesn’t mean for sarcasm to creep into his voice, but it’s Krennic’s own fault that it does.

“Why would I allow you to use me again? With how you’re treated me in the past, that sounds rather unlikely. Find yourself another test subject.”

Cold washes over him, devastating like a lightning storm on the Plateau. The only way to survive is to fight. “I know I shouldn’t trust the word of a drunkard,” he says. “You’re a disgrace to the officer corps.”

“You’re crazy. Is that the side-effect of some new invention?” Does Krennic pity him? How dare he?

“Fight me,” Tarkin spits.

“I just might.” Krennic’s expression is defiant now, practically asking to be put in his place.

“Do you not know to whom you are speaking?”

“Governor Tarkin, last time I checked. Or do you prefer Grand Moff now?” Krennic lifts his chin, a challenge.

“You are mad,” Tarkin hisses, clenching his fists.

“I haven’t clawed my way to the top by being easily scared.”

Krennic’s eyes are even more intensely blue when he’s agitated. Tarkin stares into them, giving Krennic a few seconds to pull back and cower like the rest, like any sensible man would do. He is not prepared for the push in the chest as Krennic throws himself against him, hands grasping his face, mouth frantically searching. He remains on his feet, thank the stars, catching a door post with one hand as he uses the other to take a firm grip at the neck of Krennic’s tunic. He pulls hard, holding off Krennic more by reflexes than from a conscious desire to be parted from him. The ridiculous cape comes off in his hand, and at that moment Krennic’s lips cover his own.

He allows it, realizing he is perfectly willing to lose himself to that demanding mouth, so wet and warm, yet still unyielding enough that he cannot suppress the impulse to conquer it. He nips at the questing tongue, and Krennic finally pulls back.

Tarkin throws the cape at him and wipes his mouth with his hand. Now what? The urge to fight has suddenly given way to another desire.

“I guess that shows I was serious,” Krennic says as he fastens the cape. Why he wears it alone in his quarters is a question for another time; there are more pressing matters on Tarkin’s mind.

“Without the shadow of a doubt.”

Tarkin meticulously straightens his clothes, waiting for his head to cool. Not much, just to grant him the grace of finishing this conversation without surrendering to his baser instincts. His tunic barely covers the tent in his trousers. “Now, will you accept my attempt to be civil about this – apparent – attraction between us –.” He leaves the question hanging, not knowing how to continue without being uncouth.

“–  or do I want to drag you into my quarters and fuck like animals?” Krennic delivers this line with a smirk and a glint in his eyes that makes it impossible to judge how serious he is. “I wouldn’t mind the latter, really,” he adds, “but I actually respect you. What do you suggest?”

“Reverting to my original reason for seeking you out, ignoring the recent diversion, I ask: Director, may I have the pleasure of your company this evening?” The chance of failure is abysmally high, and his stomach churns while he’s waiting for the answer. Even a second’s delay appears fatal. What nonsense!

“I guess you don’t really need to ask.” Krennic smiles, but suddenly narrows his eyes. “Just, seeing the history between us, I do have conditions. First, there will be no fighting.”

“No fighting,” Tarkin agrees, pleased at this recognition of his skill. Krennic doesn’t dare to take him on. That idea is extremely satisfying and one he looks forward to dwelling on – much later.

“No blood, no traps, no syringes… no intoxicants of any sort.” Krennic counts off his fingers.

“I was going to offer wine. No experimental additives,” Tarkin adds with annoyance, suddenly detesting the need for explanation.

“Good. I want caf, too. In the morning. That’s the one I really won’t back off on.”

That goes beyond Tarkin’s expectations of what the evening might lead to. Krennic already counts on them spending the entire night together? The idea makes him slightly uncomfortable. What if the whole thing backfires again? Will Krennic even want to see him after?

“Naturally,” he says. “I have a fine selection of both.”  

 “I can’t wait.” Krennic beams, his entire face alight. “I have been wondering when you’d take me on a date.” His voice is playful, the man’s ability to switch between emotions dizzying.

“This is not a date,” Tarkin declares. Better not raise the expectations beyond reason.

“No? What is it, then?”

“The purpose of this operation is negotiation and intelligence gathering.” He clears his throat. “To gauge whether the two of us are indeed compatible.”

“Sounds like a date to me.”

“I assure you there’s nothing romantic here.”

“I’m not expecting anything of the sort from you, Wilhuff.”

For now, he lets the use of his first name slide. It sounds rather pleasant coming from those well-formed lips, and he can’t get over how happy Krennic looks at the prospect of spending some time in his company. He hopes his own expression comes nothing near it, despite the elation in his mind.

* * *

They sit beside each other on the sofa facing the ridiculously large viewport in Tarkin’s quarters. One bottle, two glasses. Krennic is duly appreciative of the wine’s quality and Tarkin finds himself charmed with easy, intelligent talk that contains the right amount of personal to be interesting without being trite. He is pleased to see his fears that the conversation could be somewhat stilted, all things considered, come to nothing. Tarkin has more drinks to offer, naturally, but he wants them both to be reasonably sober. Krennic seems to understand, saying nothing when he replaces the empty bottle with sparkling water.

Simply sitting like this in the half-dark is strangely appealing. The view doesn’t come close to rivalling the night sky in the wilderness, but it is an acceptable surrogate, and the vast expanse of stars before them does seem to bring them closer together. Krennic’s knuckles brush against his hand, perhaps to express what he himself is thinking.

“Imagine turning them all into stardust,” Krennic says with childlike fascination, his eyes shining.

“They’re unlikely to all host rebellious systems.” Tarkin doesn’t want the light in Krennic’s eyes to go out, but somebody must be the voice of reason. Obliterating the galaxy’s entire population would not serve any purpose.

“But we can.” Krennic’s enthusiasm is unhampered.

“It is highly unlikely the Emperor would give such an order. Furthermore, it is unrealistic to direct firepower against so many targets at once. I do not doubt you are aware of the station’s limitations.”

“It would be so beautiful,” Krennic continues, waving his glass in the air. “Explosions like fireworks, so much chaos, and all because of us.”

Tarkin is almost overwhelmed by the impulse to kiss him.

“Come here,” he says. “Sit on my lap.”

Krennic straddles him with a confident smirk that gradually gives way to something else as Tarkin steadies him.

Tarkin rests his hands on Krennic's hips, then grips harder. If only Krennic would keep still and let him look, allow him take in that delightful bulge creasing his trousers, revealed to some extent as the flaps of the white tunic part. For so long, he has contented himself with watching from a distance, and now Krennic has come within his reach again. And this time –

“Look at me,” Krennic says, his voice oddly thick.

He leans back, which makes the tunic fall open some more, and Tarkin would prefer to keep his eyes on that fascinating development for quite some time, but Krennic's fingers worrying his neck are much too annoying. He almost says something, but then he lifts his gaze instead, skimming over the belt, the heaving chest, the rank badge that is commendably shiny but slightly askew. Reaching Krennic’s lips, he dwells there for a moment, wondering if this is the right time for a kiss, or if such an action would escalate the development in his own lower regions too fast. The hint of tongue that wets those lips is too much and he chooses that moment to blink. Then, Krennic's eyes.

This is what he’s longed for, what he’s been trying to induce. Krennic’s need, raw and honest and pure, untainted by any kind of coercion.

The old weakness returns. The barest touch makes the hairs on Tarkin’s forearms stand on end. It’s as if his veins are filled with kallocain; he wants, needs, must have. He wraps his arms hard against Krennic’s back, pulling him to his chest with all the force he can muster. When he releases his hold, Krennic cups his chin and Tarkin lets out a strangled sound. He'd better refrain from speaking, not to mention kissing. He will not let Krennic set things off prematurely again.

Krennic’s ceaseless wriggling is a serious threat. The better to forestall, Tarkin palms Krennic through his trousers. The resulting breathless moan encourages him to rub harder and the director begins to buck up into his hand while simultaneously attempting to put his mouth on Tarkin’s. Tarkin’s need is urgent now and if he lets that happen things will be over before they began and he cannot, must not allow it. Too much, it will be too much and not nearly enough, and it hurts to turn his head away but it’s a long time since pain frightened him. He concentrates on pleasuring Krennic, on making him equally desperate so that they will be on even terms, and then, soon, he just needs to prolong it a little more –

 “Fuck,” Krennic says. “Stop and let me kiss you!”

Tarkin reluctantly lets his hand rest. Krennic leans forward, and just when their faces are about to crash together, he slows down. Tarkin closes his eyes, waiting, wanting, and when Krennic’s lips finally come, they’re so soft it isn’t nearly enough to sustain him. He palms Krennic again, closes his hand around his length and urges him to tear and bite. If Tarkin is to be kissed, he needs to feel it.

Krennic’s hands catch his and hold him still. The director is annoyingly strong.

“One of these days, Wilhuff, I’m going to teach you how to go slow. I want to be intimate with you, not just fuck, glorious as this is. Get what I mean?”

“I am somewhat distracted,” Tarkin says, struggling to pull himself together enough to speak. “Could we perhaps save the philosophy until more urgent matters have been seen to?” He lifts his hips a couple of times, efficiently demonstrating the condition they’re both in.  The resulting friction makes them both groan.

“Of course.” Krennic laughs and leans in again, his clever tongue trailing over Tarkin’s neck all the way to his ear. The hurt in his eyes disperses quickly, but not before Tarkin has seen it.

“I want you,” Krennic says, somewhat out of breath. His fingers are at Tarkin’s crotch now, teasing.

“The feeling is mutual,” Tarkin responds hoarsely.

Krennic’s belt comes off with a clang, opening his trousers is the matter of seconds and Tarkin can finally put his hand around his cock. His head is swimming with the impossible heat, needing more of it, now. Holding off impending release is quickly becoming an impossible task. Krennic is moaning loudly, grinding against his thigh, pushing into his hand, holding on to his hips as if that could bring them into even closer proximity. He is so close and then Krennic explodes, all over Tarkin’s hand and his own uniform. It is the most erotic sight and he’s the one who caused it.

“Eager, are we, director?”

“Could you call me Orson now, maybe?” There’s a hint of a blush on his cheeks. “And yes, I was excited. It’s not the end of the galaxy.” He produces a handkerchief that takes care of everything but a few drops on the inside of Tarkin’s wrist.

Tarkin wonders what it tastes like. Perhaps he can satisfy his curiosity discreetly.

“I see I forgot something,” Krennic says and takes Tarkin’s hand. He turns it over, lifts it to his mouth and very slowly and deliberately laps at Tarkin’s wrist, evidently with much pleasure.

The action shouldn’t come as a surprise, given Orson’s fondness for himself. Tarkin can only watch with fascination, until suddenly the wetness and the friction become too much. He pulls his hand back.

“That is quite enough, thank you.”

Orson’s eyes glitter again. “It’s my turn now,” he says as he rises, “and I’m going to make you beg.”

Tarkin holds his breath; the sight of Orson sinking to his knees with the cape pooling around him commands all his attention. His gaze is trained on Orson’s face, first his mouth, and then, when his eyes catch the blue, this is all he sees. What he feels –

“Good?” It’s not really a question; Orson is beaming with arrogant confidence and at the same time he’s obviously fishing for approval.

“Ah, yes, it is –” Somehow the word is stuck in his throat and he can do nothing but feel that hot mouth clever tongue hands. “E-exquisite.”

Krennic continues to look up at him – will he ever learn to be content with what he receives?

“More,” Tarkin demands and tugs his hair, adding only as an afterthought, “please.”

Krennic’s – Orson’s – grin almost pushes him over the edge. Only iron control allows him to enjoy the expert treatment for a few more of what could be the best minutes of his life. He looks away, trains his gaze on the most mundane object he sees, an incredibly ugly paper weight that has been passed down to him by a long line of excellent administrators. It staves off desire for another moment, but then he looks down and that sight combined with being engulfed in wet heat and Orson’s muffled moans defeat him utterly. It’s the most powerful release he’s experienced for years.

 “I should go and clean up,” he says when the ability to speak has returned. This is Orson’s cue, his chance to bolt should he desire to.

“Likewise,” Krennic says as he stands, glancing at his own crotch with a sheepish grin. “I’ll be back, and I’ll bring something for you.”

* * *

The whiskey is a mistake. Tarkin knows it, yet it fits his mood too perfectly to decline and Orson’s interest in his own collection is so honest that he decides to indulge them both. They each take a healthy swig of Orson’s bottle as well. He isn’t prepared for Orson’s outburst.

“Why, Wilhuff?”

“Why what? Calm yourself.” He lays a hand on Orson’s forearm, only to have it violently shaken off.

“That would suit you, wouldn’t it? Why did you drug me?”

“I haven’t –”

“Our first time together, you did. The sex was good, but was it worth anything? It was fucking useless to me! And why? Because you used me! You fucking tricked me into taking your aphrodisiac and you have the nerve to call it science! Why the hell did you do that?”

Tarkin observes the drama playing out without taking in the words. He sees how Krennic’s increasing volume of voice is matched by the rising colour of his throat and face. Krennic’s mouth is contorted and his hands are closed fists now. The words mean nothing to him. Past the original question, it’s just a repeat of tired old accusations. He ought to be annoyed, to meet the outburst with ice-cold silence while waiting to deliver a verbal blow, a perfect command that would put the end to both it, and similar acts of rebellion.

Instead, he fazes out and lets the deluge of words pour over him. After a while he closes his eyes. If Krennic wants to hit him, let him. Krennic could have been a formidable ally if not for Tarkin’s wretched weakness. He deserves it. He waits for the blow, and by the time the tirade ceases, he’s come to crave it. He’s almost disappointed when it doesn’t come. Krennic’s face is close to his own now, he can feel it in the puffs of air against his cheek, in the reek of whiskey on his breath.

He opens his eyes.

Krennic’s are red around the edges now. He sees hurt in them, betrayal, despair even. Fear. So much fear. Things that have never bothered him before, whether in a lover or an enemy. Now, that gaze causes him pain, so much more than the outburst before. Tarkin swallows.

“Why?” Krennic repeats.

“I thought,” Tarkin replies quietly, “it was all I could get.”

How was he to know there was a potential for more? He cannot ask for forgiveness, not now. Maybe some time he will be permitted to earn it. In the meantime, this will have to do. His hands are shaking, and he clears his throat, twice, yet the words when they come out sound faint.

“I was wrong.”

Orson’s embrace is something he could expect from a Wookiee. It is a tad too hard and much too sudden, although the sentiment is easy to interpret. Orson’s mood has passed as quickly as it came.

“Thank you,” Tarkin says when he’s finally free. “I guess we’d better –” _part ways now, before everything will be ruined again._

“Bed?”

That Orson still wants to stay is remarkable. Tarkin has given him far too little credit.

There is a bit of half-hearted groping, but mostly it’s as if they’re both mostly making sure the other is still there. One advantage of having an experienced partner of a mature age – Orson will never be truly mature – is fewer expectations of a stellar performance. Capacity does not always match desire. “Next time,” he growls as he runs his hand over Orson’s rump. He is met with a contented sigh. When Tarkin checks a little later, Orson is asleep.

* * *

Two weeks later, Tarkin is still not at all sure he can provide what Orson desires from him. He is determined to try, in the same way he has done numerous times in his life, when there’s only devastating victory or defeat unto death. Only one chance. This time his life is not at stake. It just as well might be. This – this softness will be the death of him.

He sits up abruptly, then turns to look at the sleeping form beside him. It’s far too early to rise. He ghosts fingertips over freckled skin, astonished by how intimate it feels to touch Orson like this. Nonsense! It’s just the back of his hand! The subdued light makes it look as smooth as it feels – the freckles aren’t visible, nor the fine net of creased skin, the bones and veins and all.

“Stay.” Orson’s voice is blurred with sleep and he makes no effort whatsoever to school his pronunciation.

Tarkin wants to graze his lips against that skin, let his tongue explore its plains and valleys. Orson would let him. It is a dangerous thing; it would be better if he’d backhanded Tarkin for his trouble when he sought him out that night, if he’d bruised his jaw and made him bleed. The potential for hurt would have been so much less.

He has lost already; his mind has somehow registered the fear that will haunt him to the end of his days. It cannot be healthy to feel for another being to this extent.

He lies down again, listening to Orson’s breaths and his own until sleep claims him.

When he wakes up next, it is morning and a warm, heavy body clings to him. The sensation is still new, but not entirely unpleasant. Far from it, actually. Neither is the sight. Never had he thought watching a grown man sleep would evoke feelings of tenderness. It is a sign of weakness, but one he ought perhaps to permit himself, in this room. He places an errant strand of hair back with the others. It is a futile task – Orson has so much of it, especially now when it’s mussed by the pillow. Some of the unruliness is due to him as well, he will never tire of burying his hands in it or tugging and hearing Orson’s mewls.

This is Orson Krennic, Director of Advanced Weapons. In the current situation, that sounds highly unlikely. The man snores adorably, and when Tarkin strokes his ear, he clings harder but doesn’t wake up. His hand covers a large part of Tarkin’s thigh, much more than his own slender fingers would. There is more strength in him than his soft belly would indicate. His Orson is decadent. He smiles. Why not let him be? Here, at least.

Another half-hour and they’ll have to leave this secluded space, this anomaly, and return to their respective roles. He can do that, there’s certainly no need for their colleagues to see _this_. They, and the Empire, need Tarkin as determined and ruthless as ever. He will never let them down. Yet, he’s grateful to have whatever this is, for as long as it lasts. He runs his hand another time through that thick hair, follows those ridiculous and ah so sweet curls with his finger and tugs them resolutely.

Orson’s hand slaps at his, as if to chase away a gnat. He enjoys catching it and watching as its owner gradually realizes through sleep that it’s firmly stuck. Orson’s display of emotion is fascinating. Finally, he opens one eye.

“Uh… what?”

“Time to get up, you degenerate.” He lets go of Orson’s hand.

“Don’t pretend you didn’t enjoy sleeping in. You are smiling even now.”

“I may have found it refreshing,” he admits. “That, however, doesn’t change the fact that my shift on the bridge commences in less than half an hour. Move.”

“Oh well. Good morning, bleak reality!”

Krennic jumps out of bed with surprising haste and agility, offers a mock salute and disappears into the refresher. When he emerges, he’s already wearing a black tank top and matching briefs. The snug fit flatters his body.

Tarkin goes about his morning routine thinking a little too much about that body. Cold water has never been such a blessing. He ignores Orson’s eyes on him. Orson is already fully dressed and safe to look at. Good. There’s simply no time for the things his mind is still telling him to do. Fortunately, he knows how to conquer it. Nothing must come in the way of duty.

When they are both dressed, ready for another day’s responsibility and about to leave, he stops by the door and turns towards the man behind him. He must say this now; there’s no telling when he will next get the chance, or even if.

“I do not beg well,” he says. “It doesn’t come naturally to me.” Orson’s pout is endearing, and the adoring gaze makes a fatal combination. “However, if that is something you enjoy, I shall endeavour to indulge you.” He lifts his finger in warning. “Not too often.”

“Of course not. You wouldn’t want to spoil me.”

Tarkin holds his breath for a second, glad of his sense of control. He suspects that spoiling Orson is something he could learn to enjoy very much.

 

 


End file.
